Blindness
by gingerlizard91
Summary: A confrontation over the missing photo from the Stewmaker's album only reinforces Liz's desire for answers from Red, answers she may get when an insidious Blacklister puts her relationship with the enigmatic criminal to the test. Platonic Red/Liz.
1. The Big Bad Wolf

He'd been the one to set their meeting point. She was surprised at how willing he was to see her at the drop of a hat. No condescending bullshit. No "I'm busy, sweetheart," or, "I'd like to keep my carotid artery intact, thanks." Just four words: "Jefferson Memorial at 6."

So here Liz was, sitting on the memorial steps, nursing her Earl Grey tea, and wondering why circuitous answers from a sociopathic criminal were so vital to her peace of mind.

As dusk rolled in, her eyes followed a distant schooner as it cut through the placid waters of the Potomac. She pulled her pea coat tighter and watched her breath swirl before her and waft gently away. Liz couldn't remember the last time she'd been here – only fleeting sensory details snuck into her conscious mind. That day was sunny, she recalled, and slightly breezy. She'd been taking pains to avoid a group of rambunctious eighth-graders. She'd been with Tom, before she had ever questioned their love or his involvement in any illegal affairs.

And she'd never met Raymond Reddington.

"I suppose I should be thanking you, Lizzie," a voice behind her purred.

Liz didn't flinch. The way he slinked predator-like into conversation was already second nature to her. And she found that highly disconcerting.

Red exhaled as he stooped beside her and made himself comfortable. "It's been a while since I've stopped to admire the beauty of a crisp fall evening." The brim of his fedora cast a shadow across his face, accentuating every sunken pocket and every world-weary wrinkle. But his eyes, as always, were bafflingly calm.

Liz didn't beat around the bush. "Where's the photo?"

"What photo?"

"The photo you removed from the Stewmaker's album," she replied. "If you expect me to believe the man who dissolved people in chemical baths randomly skipped a slot, you're underestimating me."

"Good girl," Red muttered, smiling. After a few tense moments of silence, he added, "It's my business."

For the first time since he'd arrived, Liz turned to him. "No."

Red raised an amused eyebrow. "Beg pardon?"

"No," she repeated. "The minute you walked into FBI headquarters, the minute you dragged me into your twisted idea of a partnership, your business became my business. Don't patronize me by pretending your personal life isn't relevant."

Red peered at her over the top of his amber-colored sunglasses. His look seemed to say: _Do go on_.

"You were eager to direct our attention away from the subject of the photo," Liz continued. "Presumably he or she is deceased and meant a great deal to you. And since we've already established that you think relationships make you vulnerable, this had to be someone from prior to your criminal life."

Red carefully removed his sunglasses, folded them, and slid them into his breast pocket. Nothing in his expression betrayed an answer. The man was a perpetually closed book, and it infuriated her.

"_Look_," Liz said, training her eyes on the river once more, "I may not know why you chose me. But if I can find your weak spot, some old wound to put pressure on, I can get you to tell me whatever I want."

Red laughed. "You're rather endearing when you're making threats, Lizzie."

"Not threats. Promises. The agency owes you nothing. _I_ owe you nothing. You recommend me for operations I'm not remotely qualified to handle. I put my life on the line and you're the only one who reaps the rewards. You wanna talk 'camel-trading like a Bedouin'? What the hell's in it for me?"

"Experience," he replied. "Contacts. Answers to questions you never thought to ask. I sense your frustration, and I share it. I felt the same at your age –"

"For Christ's sake," Liz breathed. "We are _not_ the same, Red."

"Yes, you're right," Red said sardonically. "Forgive me for merely identifying a fellow wanderer on the same trail."

His words rang true in the pit of her stomach, but she urged herself to ignore them. He possessed an uncanny ability to chip away at her resolve. "I just wish – "

"You wish you could go back to before it began."

She dared to meet his gaze, and found a flicker of sympathy.

Red removed his fedora and held it in his hands. "We are all born blind, Lizzie. As we move through life, our eyes open a little wider. You have the unfortunate privilege of being fully cognizant now where most people are still being fed fairytales into adulthood." He paused for effect, then deadpanned, "Still think I'm the Big Bad Wolf?"

"You're a killer. You trade information to protect your own assets, and you don't give a shit about who gets caught in the crossfire. No one really matters to you." _I sound defeated_, a nasty little voice in her head whispered.

"You matter to me," he said guilelessly.

The raw heat that rose to her cheeks was difficult to mask. His honesty around her was unsettling at times.

It was Red's turn to sigh. "Maybe, one day, you'll understand why."

Liz nodded. "If you'll let me."

He turned and studied her face for a few seconds, his lips set in a grim smile. His hand lightly brushed against her lower back. No extended contact; just something to remind her that they were occupying the same space in the same moment, and a connection had been made.

Red stood, donned his fedora, and started down the steps. "The picture is back at my . . . current residence," he called back. "You're welcome to come scrutinize it."

Liz moved. She actually _moved_. Desperate to believe him, her legs had acted of their own accord. But as she watched his retreating figure, she sat down again.

Rule number one: Raymond Reddington lies.


	2. Knowing and Believing

**A/N**: Hey guys! Thank you, thank you, thank you for the reviews/favorites/follows! I had originally planned for this to be a one-shot, but I think I'm going to take cues from the show and continue it. Let's see how long I can weave the mystery of the photo through this fic before it gets solved, shall I?

On a slightly different note: while I'm flattered at how "well" you guys apparently think I write Liz and Red (which does mean a lot to me, as I'm hoping to write for television one day), you should probably only expect platonic stuff for the time being. I'm still nursing the possibility of him being her father, so I can't ship them in any romantic capacity. I mean, if it goes a different direction in the show, I'm down for it, but for right now, sorry to disappoint!

**WARNING: This chapter contains spoilers for 1x06, "Gina Zanetakos." **

* * *

Liz had been anxiously anticipating a situation where she could tell someone to go to hell. As it happened, Red was the perfect person to test the phrase on and see how the words felt as they rolled off her tongue.

They felt good. Right. Like burning a bridge she'd never meant to build.

She was doing the cooking tonight, a weak apology for the hell she'd put the two of them through lately. Liz couldn't fathom how she'd brought Tom in on suspicion of murder and had him cleared all in one day, and he held no grudge. Well, no grudge on the surface. In true Tom fashion, he'd only expressed concern for her, for the distance she'd placed between them since her first day on the job.

"I'm willing to put this behind us if you are," Tom told her over her hastily-made chicken parm.

Liz finished chewing the bite she was on. "Tom, I don't know how to make it up to you – "

He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. "Liz, I love you. _Unconditionally_. And I know you're going through a tough spell. I should've been prepared for this."

Her expression brightened a little. "So you don't think I'm bat-shit crazy?"

A melodious laugh escaped Tom's lips. "No! If anything, we're all a little crazy when we think no one is watching."

Liz smiled and meticulously cut her chicken parm into small squares.

"But . . ." Tom began.

Her shoulders sank. "Oh, no," she muttered, embarrassed.

"It's not what you think, Liz. I just . . . I mean, I know you're not allowed to talk about work in detail, but you went from zero to stressed-out in the blink of an eye. I can't help but feel like there was some sort of catalyst."

Under the table, Liz raked her nails across her knee in frustration. _Red_, she wanted to say. Red was the catalyst. Red was the root of all her troubles. She wanted to tell Tom that she'd done the right thing by severing ties with Red. Instead, she opted for a simpler, "There was. And that catalyst has been neutralized."

Tom grinned. "You're a tiny bit scary when you use words like that."

She shot a grin back at him as she collected their empty plates. "Not as scary as I'm going to be later tonight."

"Ooh," Tom cooed, raising an eyebrow.

Liz carried the plates to the kitchen and began to rinse them off. She put them in the dishwasher one by one. And somewhere between the last dish and loading the detergent, Liz began to entertain her misgivings all over again.

If she knew one thing, it was that Red couldn't be trusted. His reputation for stirring the pot preceded him, rendering any potential "genuine" interaction null and void. As earnest as their conversation at the Jefferson Memorial had felt, she took it with a grain of salt. Somehow, though, pinning it all on Red just felt _lazy_. Like something she and the rest of the FBI expected. There was no doubt, at least, that she was privy to his criminal dealings even after he'd turned himself in, and could spill the beans to Cooper at any time. Liz chuckled mirthlessly. Red was relying on _her_ for once; finally, she had power over him.

Liz turned the problem of the Stewmaker's missing photo over in her mind. Why indeed would Red have nicked it if it hadn't meant something deeper to him? Was there still a decent human being underneath all the muck his personality had accumulated over the years? Something was surely missing, Liz thought. She may have been acting in the moment when she confronted Red in his hidey-hole of the week, but she wasn't done coaxing answers out of him.

She remembered how it felt when she'd gone to him, distressed about not knowing who to believe. She remembered the warmth of his hand, the jolt of sincerity she'd felt from his being there so she had someone to cling to as her life spiraled around her. And she desperately wanted to believe that, although he lied through his teeth to everyone else around him, he wasn't lying to her.

Liz shut the dishwasher door and pressed the wash button.

Back to square one.

* * *

Miles away, Red swirled his scotch in its glass and stared ahead at the spackled wall above the painting. He took a sip, grimaced as the acrid liquor trickled down his throat, and crossed his legs.

Red refused to lie to himself by saying Liz would come around in due time. He knew her well – better than he was willing to reveal just yet – and he knew that when she was set in a decision, little could be said to make her switch sides again. That was her problem: she took the world too literally, wasn't able to see the sordid happenings beneath the façade of ordinary life. The most realistic option facing him now was to refrain from putting all his eggs in the Liz basket.

But he hoped. And for a fleeting moment as she had turned on her heel and stormed out, he had hurt.

None of this surprised him, of course. He'd made his living off people distrusting him. If one person's opinion mattered, though, it was Elizabeth Keen's.

She didn't believe in him. But he most ardently believed in her.


	3. Wake-Up Call

A/N: Sorry this chapter took so long! I'm still trying to make sense of the plot and where it's going. I foresee a lot of post-publication edits in my future. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

"One cup of guava, coming up."

"Black as my soul, if you please, Luli," Red called after her.

"This is the last time," Luli responded, halfway to the kitchen. "You make your own damn coffee from now on."

Red turned to Dembe. "And that's why she was on the list. Keeps me in check."

Dembe returned the nearest thing to a smile that he knew and continued to clean his pistol.

Red had Luli to thank for their current base camp, an ornate Victorian-style abode in the northern Virginia suburbs. After several weeks of opulent hotel suites and half-renovated apartments, he'd expressed a desire for living quarters that fell somewhere in the middle, something homey and comfortable that reminded him of better days. It was sheer luck that Luli possessed a bit of unsavory information on the local real estate agent that would have caused the agent's wife much distress. All it took was a few calls to ensure the house would be removed from the market for the two nights they planned on staying there – and any night thereafter, if it ever came to that.

The bay window was what really captivated Red about this place. But when he caught himself picturing a little girl with a pink hair barrette sitting in front of it, he wondered if perhaps this had been a mistake.

Dembe seemed to find interest in the bay window as well, his eyes flitting back and forth between it and his gun. His increased vigilance acted as both reassurance and a subtle communication that something in their surroundings was off. Red folded the pages of his _Washington Post _back and dove into the news of the day.

Luli reappeared a couple minutes later with his coffee. "I really don't understand you," she said. "A tablet can get you all the personalized news you want, and it's not like I don't have the means to make it untraceable."

"Newspapers are a luxury. I got my news via word-of-mouth during the Chechen War." He looked up, not at her, but at the window. The back of his neck prickled uncomfortably.

Luli shrugged and straightened, and a moment later, Dembe was diving at her as the crack of a gunshot rang out. Red's paper and coffee went flying as he rolled off the couch, two decades' worth of survival instinct kicking in instantly. Another shot pierced the early-morning silence, sending a spray of polyester stuffing from the couch, and a third hit the ceiling above the cast-iron chandelier. Red scrambled to cover Luli as the chandelier plummeted downward, stopping only inches from his exposed back.

"Are you injured?" he shouted.

"I'm fine," she said, a little breathlessly. "Dembe?"

Dembe was already up and returning fire, shooting straight through the shattered glass to the park across from the house. Red managed to spot a dark blur moving amidst the swings, but their assailant was too fast for him to catch any definitive characteristics.

The gunfire ceased. None of them moved for several tense seconds. Dembe finally lowered his pistol and slumped against the wall, grasping his side. When he pulled his hand away, it was covered in blood.

"I knew we should have closed the curtains today," Red muttered. He pushed himself to his feet and helped Luli up. She immediately whipped out her phone to call 911, while Red took out his and dialed the only number that mattered.

"Best way to piss me off is to call early in the morning on my day off," Liz Keen said on the other end of the line, her voice groggy with sleep.

"Your day off is no more. Someone just tried to kill me."

* * *

The first person Liz laid eyes on at the black site was Luli, deep in a phone conversation. Luli acknowledged Liz with a nod and typed something into her laptop. Then, in a tone so saccharin Liz though she was going throw up her breakfast, Luli said, "Thank you so much, officer. I hope my poor brother makes a speedy recovery. We all miss him terribly here at the bakery." The moment she hung up, her faux pleasantries vanished. "They're treating Dembe at General. The bullet was lodged in a muscle and they were able to extract it. Apparently he refused morphine injections."

Red was closely examining the case board, shadowed by Agent Ressler and Assistant Director Cooper. "Good man. He'll be back to slitting throats in no time." When Ressler's eyes widened, Red chortled, "I kid, Agent Ressler. Honestly, don't any of you know how to take a joke? Ah, Agent Keen, how nice of you to join us." He inclined his head toward Liz before wheeling on Cooper. "All the arrangements are in order?"

Cooper exhaled heavily. "He leaves when he wants to. No paperwork. No questions asked. We're sending an operative there to accommodate his needs, should he require anything. I trust you've been brought up to speed, Agent Keen?"

Liz folded her arms across her torso. "More or less. What confuses me is why we're wasting time here when we could be piecing things together at the scene right now."

"Simple," Red said. "The forensics team won't find much, save for a loose trajectory and some generic footprints."

"And a few bullets that'll help us trace the gun," Ressler piped up, sneering.

Red reached into his coat pocket and produced a small piece of brass-colored metal. "Way ahead of you."

Liz, growing impatient, snatched the bullet from Red's hand only to pass it off to a nearby technician. "Get this to the lab – "

"The bullet you're currently holding," Red announced, "is from a .300 Winchester Magnum cartridge fired from an M24 sniper rifle. But please, do continue to discuss the numerous tests you plan to run on it, telling you exactly what I just said."

Liz closed her palm around the bullet. "And you know this _how_?"

"Because not too long ago, I delivered a considerable number of those rifles to your next Blacklister."

Behind Liz, Cooper and Ressler exchanged a look.

"His name is Hasan Ghazali. He's a Syrian-American currently heading the Free Brothers of Syria, one of many rebel groups fighting for control of the country's government. He is young, brilliant, and headstrong, which makes him . . . quite dangerous."

"I don't see how he's a threat," Ressler said, glancing around at them. "So he's a rebel fighter? I'd be lying if I said I didn't root for those guys."

Red shifted. "He's dangerous, not because of what he's done, but because of what he can do. He has made powerful allies who will do whatever they must to keep the rest of the world out of their civil war – including the United States."

Liz began to fill in the blanks. "Now he's got a beef with you because something went wrong with the weapons."

"I sold the Brothers a modest arms cache at the beginning of the conflict. They were inexperienced and careless, conducting small-scale attacks on government buildings that they hadn't prepared for. Many of the rifles were seized, along with their owners. I suspect Ghazali wants his money back."

"What do you bring to the table here?" Cooper asked.

"I have a contact in London who may be able to shed light on the situation. Meanwhile, I suggest you get to work on Ghazali's whereabouts. I hear he likes to visit his sister this time of year."

Cooper narrowed his eyes, and Liz unexpectedly found herself suppressing a smile. Cooper didn't like being told what to do by a nefarious criminal, and it showed in his expression, even as he tasked Ressler with researching and locating Ghazali.

From the corner of her eye, Liz saw Red turn on his heel and make for the exit. Irritated, she pocketed the bullet and jogged after him. "That's it?"

"What's it?" Red replied without stopping.

"No charming invitation to accompany you to London? No promises of expensive gifts or information on how twisted my life apparently is?"

"You said you wanted us to remain work partners and nothing more. Work partners don't go gallivanting off to other countries together."

Her feet acted faster than her head. She got ahead of him, swiveled, and blocked his path. "You're hiding something."

Red regarded her calmly. "I'm always hiding something, Lizzie."

"There must be a reason why you don't want me to go with you – which is why I'm coming."

"And what makes you so sure of that?"

She opened her mouth in mock surprise. "What you going to do? Tell me it's too _dangerous_? You've already put me in more life-threatening situations in the past three months than most agents see their entire careers."

Liz noticed a tic appear in his cheek and knew she'd gotten to him. Red stared her down, presumably willing her to drop the subject, but she stood her ground. She didn't know precisely what he was up to or even what she wanted from him, but something in her gut said that this excursion to London would be a good start to finding out. Finally, Red sighed dramatically.

"Fine. Five o'clock tomorrow morning. I'll send you the location." He brushed past her without another word.

_Victory_, Liz thought as she tried to ignore the fact that Red was still dictating their meeting times.

* * *

A satisfied smile crept cross Red's face as Luli fell in step with him. "Nice bit of reverse psychology. I always thought she was too stubborn. "

They stepped into the black site elevator and Red hit the down button. "Stubborn, yes. But also too curious for her own good."


End file.
